December 7th 1941: First Pain
by Heart of a Music Box
Summary: Pearl Harbor is bombed and Alfred, to say the least, is disrupted.


The war in Europe was turning. That was the best news any of the allies had heard in months.  
Arthur sat to the left of the table, the majority of the ride side of his body covered in bandages. His eye was swollen shut, and the other was dazedly out of focus. Francis somewhat resembled a mummy, with only his eyes and lips visible on his face. He couldn't move from his slumped position on the sofa; only his breathing gave the fact that he was alive away. Ivan's wounds couldn't be seen clearly; he was standing in the darkest corner of the room, back turned to the rest of his comrades. Yao was absent entirely.

In this room, Alfred, with his burns, bruises, scattered bandages, and complete mobility, felt completely out of place. He sat silently at the head of the table and stared straight ahead. He cleared his throat. He tapped his fingers. Nothing felt right anymore. He shifted his gaze, first toward Arthur, then toward the windows-where the sky was gray and bleak-then toward the clock, and finally at the calendar. It was December, the 7th. A small jolt of an emotion he couldn't describe struck him as he read that date. A sharp pain throbbed suddenly in his right knee, and his hand flew to it with a quiet gasp. Arthur's good eye flickered in his direction.

And all at once, the door burst open.

Four pairs of eyes turned to the American man as he rushed to Alfred, who in turn stood to greet him. The messenger was shaking, his eyes wide in terror as he grabbed Alfred's jacket sleeve.

"W-we-we're, we…"

"We're what? Spit it out!"

"We're under attack!"

Arthur snapped to attention, and even Francis found the energy to shift and sit a little straighter. Alfred felt his stomach go cold and his heart skipped a beat. Under attack…Ludwig's forces were being held deep in Europe, and last he'd know, Veneziano had no strongholds or plans to attack him. That left only…

"At this very minute!" The messenger continued frantically, "Please, you need to-"

"Let's go."

"Alfred," Arthur began hoarsely, trying to rise from his chair as his body began to shake, "if it's who we all think it is, you'll be in need of-"

"I'll be alright. Don't you dare think you need to move."

And he turned and ran out the door, leaving his European allies to ponder exactly where and what had been attacked.

~ * ~

The destruction Alfred found when he reached his farthest Pacific stronghold was enough to trump anything he'd seen in Europe. His battleships, his airplanes that he'd worked so hard and so lovingly on, were in shambles. The water around his prized vessels was red and dotted with the bodies of his loyal men. They'd lost their lives, most before even realizing what had hit them. They were gone, and their burned and torn corpses would have to be returned to their families, whom they know doubt had promised to return to.

He felt his stomach heave, and he gulped down the bile that had risen.

His knee was bleeding now. He'd lifted his pants leg moments ago to find a deep gash, deep enough to see a bit of the bone inside. Muscle pulsed and torn veins spewed out, and he'd dropped it again in disgust. He'd never had a wound like that before, and the pain was something new and amazing.  
He took a step, reveling in the shocking agony that followed. It was…exceptionally strange, and he didn't know whether to love it or loathe it.

It was at that moment that he saw the Arizona, or rather, what was left sticking up out of the water. He could hear his men inside her hull, banging and screaming while others on the outside tried to break in and save them. It was sinking too quickly, Alfred could see that. They'd never get out. That ship was going to be one mass grave. He retched again.

He continued to limp around the ruined base, watching the wounded limp away to the trucks and toward the town, side-by-side with their comrades, cold and still on stretchers. Tears ran down some faces, while others were blank. They couldn't fathom what had just happened.

Alfred's Pacific fleet was gone, along with twenty-three hundred and fifty of his people.

"I'll kill him…"

"Alfred?"

He turned. Before him stood his brother, Matthew, virtually unscathed and staring very uncertainly at his American kin. Alfred wondered vaguely if his face had become scary.

"Your leg is bleeding. Here, let me…" his whisper trailed off. He slid his arms around Alfred's torso and lifted him from the ground, as Alfred came to the realization that he'd fallen to his knees. Matthew slung one of Alfred's arms over his shoulders, letting his weight lean heavily on his body.

"I'm going to kill him, Matthew, I really am." His voice shook.

"You're angry right now, Al, you're saying things you don't mean."

"No…no, Matt, I'm serious. I can't forgive this…this mess he's made here. I can't forgive Kiku. I'll kill him!" He rambled, his voice gaining volume with every word. Tears streamed freely down his face as he bared his clenched teeth.

"Do you hear me, Kiku?" he screamed suddenly, causing Matthew to wince and the nearest couple of soldiers to look at him in confusion.

"I said, can you hear me?" he shouted at the ocean horizon, "Huh? You damn traitor, can you hear me? I'm coming for you! Don't think you've won anything here, because I'm coming for you and I'm going to kill you! And you'll die…"

His voice quieted as he focused in on a man, floating in the water just off the dock he stood on. He'd been shot clean through the head.

"But you won't die like this man…no, you'll die slow and painful…"

His vision blurred then, and as Matthew slowly led him away, the pain in his leg was copied exactly into his heart.


End file.
